Seek
by Fogs of Gray
Summary: It was a game she always enjoyed. This time, though, she worried he'd never show.


Slight AU. I figured Macon would know something of Abraham's plans. Leah was never given a side, so I placed her with the Light. And as they both travelled the world...well, maybe they passed information along.

Disclaimer: Not mine

Spoilers: None

* * *

The rainfall keeps his eyes open. Or, at least, that's what he attributes the keenness of his gaze to. Not the constant nightmare pounding for daylight inside his skull. Not the worry that tightens his fingers. No, it had to be the rain, steady and heavy, and the context.

He wishes he could say he is unimpressed with her. However, the eaves keep his obvious dryness hidden to the other occupants of the outer walls. Although, admittedly, they are more entranced in each other than the formally dressed man lounging against the brick, cigarette barely illuminating his features. Yes, this is perfect, he concludes, as he fakes a gentle cough. The chill has barely caught the air, if he were honest, but, again, those at risk of noticing the act hardly care.

They need this. This time. This quick switch that will tip the odds in the Light's favor. He's overheard enough; Boo's far more dynamic than anyone's given him credit for and Macon's observant hands wrote every wayward, minuscule word so that those who _could_ be saved were.

Time, though. Leah is never good with time. Despite the strain this puts on both parties, he allows his head to smack the brick and his eyelashes to catch each other. In fact, he almost forgets the tension between his shoulders, almost loses the echoing tempo of his irreversible clock. The absence is far more condemning than the cacophony normally occupying his mind. The darkness, though, is a welcome surrender.

"Enjoying yourself, handsome?" He exhales slowly, letting the hazy rings disappear inevitably into the dusk. His eyes open quickly, a shock of black, and his head lolls to meet her stare.

"Leah." She stands no taller than him, clad in her combat boots and swinging overcoat. His brow twitches in slight regard. Her nose wrinkles in response.

"I dressed up, Macon, don't worry." She jerks the woolen hem back enough to reveal the shimmering gray of the dress he suggested. "For what, I don't know, but-"

"I find immense pleasure in formal wear," he offers. A small laugh escapes her rose-tinted lips. With an inaudible sigh, his hand swings back to snuff the cigarette against the brick. He stands straight, shoulders back. "Besides, you chose the setting, Leah." A bright smile fills her face.

"And you the time limits. I know we're both hard-pressed for a free moment." Her grin fades. He takes her hand with a gentle tug towards the door.

"Shall we begin?"

* * *

Different date. Different setting. She's in a small café in Vienna. Not something she would have chosen, but this was his turn. Lilting music fills the air. She toys absently with the drink that sits neglected in front of her as she waits for her companion to arrive. Alone in the back of the room, no one has given her a second glance. As to whom she was meeting...well, she imagines this was Macon's version of humor. She also wonders what his attire will consist of, but the thought passes quickly.

It is a farce, essentially. Seeing her with him wouldn't be a surprise, not in the slightest. They are siblings, after all. And if attackers chose to follow Macon back to Ravenwood, or wherever he was visiting that week, he was prepared. However, she had contact with more than one Light Caster who would find this information valuable, in the least. Dates and names as to when this insidious regime would attack were dangerously expensive. The lives they could, potentially, save are priceless.

As she waits, though, her eyes scan each person in the café – the refined looking gentleman at the table by the front window is reading the local newspaper, last week's edition. The young couple, looking giddily in love are flirting at the table in the opposite corner. The group of men who look as if they've come from a long day at a factory sit at the bar with their caps pushed back, half-empty glasses of beer in front of them.

Maybe the patter of their hearts is her fixation, maybe the distinctly human dullness of their irises. No, these are Mortals, nothing more. Simply more people whose lives could be affected, ultimately, by this. She huffs a sigh, her finger dancing around the glass lip. She supposes, with the sun having only set, this is adequate enough.

The door chimes. She almost doesn't bother trying to find the heartbeat when she notices the lack of one. Her eyes shoot up only for a second before he slips into the booth opposite of her. With that, the mystery is solved.

She had asked for causal dress. Relenting from the silver and lines, she has to admit, he didn't disappoint her. Not that the faintest idea of his ignorance had actually planted itself in her thoughts...but she wonders if her unflappable brother even owned anything that didn't scream formality and black-label alcohol.

He appears in a button-down and dark jeans. His hair looks in disarray, as though he's run his hand through it one too many times. "I already ordered," she blurts. He grins his small smile, all she sees of it nowadays.

He plucks a cigarette from his pocket, and a lighter in tandem. The look of vexation that mars his features was almost too convincing for her taste. His brow furrows gently, his lips turn down, and the cigarette remains unlit.

She produces another, and lights it for him, tucking the dead lighter into one of her numerous coat pockets. Simply, just like that, the plans are transferred into her care. Beneath the smooth metal is a sheet of paper, pliant and printed, detailing everything they need to know for a quiet escape. Everything needed to save lives.

Macon allows the cigarette to sit propped in his fingers. "How is she?" _Sarafine_? Her voice is confident, despite the seemingly leaden weight in her pocket.

"Restless," he replies, calm. His eyes meet hers sharply. "She's planning a...visit," a casual glance around the café, "to his _home._" _She needs his help._ His smile fades somewhat. "He'll take her in, of course." _And Abraham will give it. _Leah nods once.

"Is that what she's looking for? A home?" _Help in what?_ He tilts his head and breathes again, the end of the cigarette flaring.

"She will have than that, Leah. I'd imagine she's appraising universities." _Long-term commitments, Leah. Something...time consuming. _The next question tumbles off her lips, distant.

"In what field?" _What's the damage_? Macon takes a quiet puff again.

"Forensics," he supplies. _Murders_. Something inside her breaks. She wants nothing more than other information, something to quell the nervous fluttering in her chest. "Some distant school." _No one we know. _Her fingers halt on the tabletop.

"We'll have to visit, then."

* * *

They meet again under the same roles. She runs into him, or he runs into her, either way, he's in her makeshift home demanding her to leave. There's something new in his eyes, something unsettling in his voice, and a purpose in his step that she can't shake off. Her own voice trembles in her throat, hesitant and confused. "Do they know?" It's not much, but it's all her throat allows. _Do they know it's you? Do they know_ _you're doing this? _He laughs quietly, and it chills her bones.

"They will soon." It's still in his voice, and it makes bile rise, her hair prickle. Fear makes her stomach churn. His resolve is clear and unmistakeable. "There's enough time," he glances back and then to her eyes, "for you to run."

If possible, her stomach knots more. "You're coming, too," she murmurs. She hates the way it comes out, a question rather than a statement. He smiles again, more enthused than she's ever recalled.

"I'll be behind you, Leah."

"You're lying." She means the phrase to be burning, but it comes off feeble. Her hands shaking, she pulls him to her, memorizing how his suit feels beneath her fingers, how he smells of old books and Confederate jasmine. She relaxes enough to mutter tightly, "Come back." She exhales. "Come back, hm?"

"Don't I always?" He pulls away, and her chest tightens. There's a finality she wants to erase. Instead, she nods.

"Next time?" It's her time to choose location, she knows, but this once, they'll break the rules.

His brow furrows. It hits when there's a few good feet between them. She's halfway out the door, and he's turning the gas on, fumbling with the lighter she gave him. "Vienna," he responds, somewhat incredulous. She smiles. The café.

"Formal wear." He blinks once, distinctly. "I've come to appreciate it." With a twirl of her overcoat, her hair still not quite in its customary ponytail, she disappears.

* * *

The woman sits in the small Viennese café, toying with a small metal lighter. The occupants hardly notice her; they've found more interest in each other, the beer, or last week's newspaper. She lounges in the shadows, the overcoat clumped in the corner of the booth. Instead, she's clad in the gray shimmer of a dress her brother had bought for her, in 'some small corner shop' from his travels. _Beautiful_. He had described it as such on her. Of course...she supposes that's past tense. That was the small flaw, really. The lighter stops in her fingers.

Had the flames really taken her brother? Some part of her thinks he lived. He'd promised, well, he didn't really. He said he'd come back. _Don't_ _I_ _always?_ The bell chimes.

It's only been three months, but her body is belying her stress. The dress is looser than she previously remembers. Her eyes are more tired. She comes here, asks the same questions, and she waits, when she can. No one comes. This time, though, feels different.

The lighter clicks, but no flame comes. In a quick moment, she lets the cigarette prop foreignly between her lips. She's tried smoking, certainly, and hasn't understood the draw. She tries again, her nose wrinkling when the lighter simply clicks.

A hand settles on her shoulder. She shakes her head, attempting the lighter once more. Her partner beats her to it, producing a new lighter, and aids her trouble. She slumps against the booth, taking a deep breath from the offending cigarette. "You saved my life," she murmurs sardonically. The person laughs, and she almost recognizes it.

"Don't I always?"

* * *

Thanks to my wonderful beta, Lyrics Amidala. She saves my life. :)


End file.
